Bane
by HardfacedQueenofMisadventure
Summary: "Humans and programs were never intended to be compatible." A story in two parts: Bane's final hours in control, and Smith's struggle with the confines of a human form. Takes place during Reloaded. T for violence and dark thoughts.
1. Carrier

**It's finally here! The promised "something completely different". It may not be quite what you were expecting to see, but please appreciate the sheer amount of work that went into this. I think it's literally the single most challenging thing I've written to date, and one of the most enjoyable. I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you have as much fun reading it. Enjoy!**

* * *

It has been a full hour since he jacked out, and he still feels wrong. Still cold, even in Zion's arid, close heat. Still uneasy, even after their medic gave him the all-clear and told him to sleep it off. Still afraid, even though the Agent is long gone. He remembers so little of their encounter, but the few seconds that linger in his mind are enough to make his pulse quicken.

"_Oh, God."  
__**Smith will suffice.  
**__(Pain like something's tearing out my heart, I'm dying, I'm -)  
Waking up in the cold, familiar haven of the Caduceus, wondering what the hell happened. Was it trying to kill him or…?_

"Bane!" It's a welcome snap out of his haunting reverie. Automatically he turns towards the source of that voice, smiling already even though he can't see her yet.

"Alite!" The beautiful Zionite throws her arms around him, joyful sobs emitting quietly from her throat. He buries his face in the dark mass of hair that falls to her shoulders, inhaling deeply. She smells of cinnamon and cloves, a warm, welcome smell; it helps to ground him a little. He holds her warmth as close as he can, trying to banish the lingering chill at last.

"You okay?" She's holding him at arm's length now, scrutinising him closely with intense, dark eyes. He nods, still uncertain but willing to ignore it for her sake. She doesn't need to worry about him. Alite looks unconvinced for a beat or so, but banishes it quickly with another smile.

"I missed you," she says simply, pulling herself closer once more. Willingly, he leans in and seizes her lips in a long-desired kiss.

_Something inside of him recoils at the contact, clamping down on his mind hard enough to trigger a stabbing, sudden headache. Revulsion and the irrepressible need to push her away fill every part of his being, and he can't understand it. _

**No, **_it hisses in a voice he senses more than he hears. _**Virus. **

Alite obviously senses his sudden tension because she pulls away, confusion and concern in her eyes.

"Are you sure you're all right? You don't look…right." He does his best to smile again.

"I'm fine. Tired." She nods her understanding, but breaks away, clearly bothered.  
Deep within him, something shifts. He feels triumph, victory, but they are not his emotions. They belong to something…else. He shivers.

* * *

Once home, all he can focus on is the seeping chill slowly pervading his body. Starting at his core, it fills his entire body, eliciting mild shivers despite the fact that his mate has been forced out of her modest clothing and into something much lighter just to avoid baking alive while she prepares dinner. Sweat glistens on her burnt-caramel skin in tiny beads, loose strands of her ebony hair cling to her face and neck. He knows he should want her, badly, especially after several months of isolation, but he doesn't. He can't. The mere sight of her body is enough to bring back a shadow of his earlier revulsion. Every vaguely suggestive thought makes him shudder and turn away. She's perpetually in motion, even in the heat, his eyes moving double-time just to keep up. Even when she's not pacing the tiny kitchen area, her hands are moving, her eyes are bright and alive with motion. His head throbs just watching her, and he lets his eyes close a moment.  
And she's barely stopped _talking _since they got home. Normally this wouldn't bother him, but the sound of her voice hurts, physically hurts him. Maybe he's just tired; this is all a side-effect of the kind of exhaustion that comes when you haven't slept a full night in over three months.

"They're planning a counter-attack," he interjects, noting the hollow sound of his voice. "I don't know when they'll need me back, but..." She cuts him off with a sharp wave of a henna-tattooed hand, polished beads of black stone clinking softly around her wrist.

"Shut up," she commands, her tone stern in spite of the playful smile quirking up the corner of her mouth. "Don't spoil this for me." He lowers his head in response, hoping he looks suitably chastened. There's a few brief seconds of silence before she speaks up again, and he hopes that he doesn't visibly recoil.

"I picked a little something up for today," she says, the tone of her voice indicating that this is a big deal. He looks up; in her hands she's clutching a small glass bottle. He raises his eyebrows, impressed. The alcohol itself isn't anything special; it's brewed from the same cheap grain that makes up the bulk of their diet, but since most supplies are used for food, such things are prohibitively expensive.

"How did you…?" Lord only knows how she managed to get hold of it. She smiles proudly.

"What can I say? We've got a lot to celebrate." Really, the bottle's tiny. He reckons it holds about enough for two cups, maybe less. Not enough to get drunk on, but maybe that's for the best.

He compliments the food and she grins playfully in response, giggling her way through a show of false modesty, both of them knowing that it's a lie: Alite can't cook to save her life, and most of this is probably the handiwork of one of her friends.  
Not that it matters. He has no appetite, despite the fact that real food after months of tasteless nutrient gruel is a blessing that cannot be matched by anything. He picks half-heartedly at the meal that tastes of little but ashes, forcing conversation to flow and volunteering to clear up in a vain attempt to draw less attention to how little he's eaten.

* * *

Things only get worse once they head to bed. In the silence of their small bedroom, she presses against him, minute purring sounds falling from her lips. If anything, the meagre drink they shared has only heightened her desire, making her impossible to dissuade. He knows what she wants, and in a way he wants it too. But the _thing _in his mind won't let him get anywhere close. Alite doesn't understand, thinks he's just playing hard to get. She giggles and shifts, nudging up against him persistently, teasing him to distraction just so he'll give in and say yes. Warm, playful fingers brush against his chest and stomach; her eyes practically glitter in the candlelight. Light kisses fall against his neck and shoulders. _Temptress. _Yes, yes, he wants her, wants this. He does. He pulls her closer to him impulsively, once more craving the warmth of her body. Their lips meet ravenously, truly tasting one another in a way that they've both been yearning for. Intimacy is all too rare in times of war, and when the opportunity for it arises it needs to be embraced. Her forehead gently bumps against his chest.

"Get these clothes off of me," she growls, sounding so unlike herself that a thrill courses through his veins. Adroit hands begin work beneath the thin sheets, divesting his lover of what little clothing she's still wearing as she does the same for him.

_**No.**__ Something isn't right. His heart starts to race, and it has nothing to do with the activity he's currently engaged in. A breath catches in his throat, and the chill that has been lingering for a while returns in full force, a sudden shivering fit catching him off guard. _

_**Don't touch me, **__murmurs that scarcely audible voice in the back of his mind, dripping with pure hatred. Nausea wells in the pit of his stomach, and it's all he can do to resist pushing her away then and there_. She notices though, inevitably, that something isn't right.

"Bane…" she sighs, and the moment is gone. The bubble of intimacy bursts as though it never existed, and she slowly wriggles out of his arms, pushing herself away from him.

"Alite." He wants to apologise, but she cuts him off with a dismissive shake of her head.

"If you're not up to it, that's okay," she says softly, but he can tell that she's slightly hurt.

"I just…" He breaks off, unsure of what to tell her. He somehow doubts that she'll accept the explanation of strange voices in his head, at least not without dragging him straight to the infirmary with the assumption that he's losing his mind.

"It's okay," she repeats tonelessly. "You should probably get some sleep." She rolls over and settles, far too quickly for him to believe that she's fallen asleep already. Another penetrating chill wracks his body, and he lets his eyes drift shut, praying that he'll be able to follow the medic's advice and just sleep this off.

* * *

Alite isn't sure what wakes her at first; she just knows that something's happening. Blinking back drowsiness, she sits up, taking in her surroundings. It's still just as warm as it was, and she's about to throw back the sheets when something catches her attention.  
At first, all she can make out are a few sleepy, indecipherable murmurs from her sleeping mate, and she almost smiles. Another slurred sentence, out of which she understands maybe two or three words, before he lapses back into silence. _He never used to talk in his sleep before…_ Then she notices how violently he's trembling. Faint worry dredges up inside of her, but rational thinking pushes it back. _A nightmare…? _

"Bane?" It's a struggle to keep her tone even. This isn't right. She tentatively reaches for his bare shoulder in the dark, finds him much hotter than he should be, though he's shivering like a man freezing to death. Before she can completely surrender to panic, the rational part of her mind steps back in. _Just a fever. Just a fever. He'll sleep through it and be fine by morning. Just let him sleep. _As if sensing her thoughts, Bane jerks back to consciousness with a sudden cry, eyes immediately searching for something.

"Hey!" Her hands automatically close around his shoulders, holding him still. Their eyes meet, and she recoils. The blue-grey eyes she sees before her are not those of the man she knows so well; they hold nothing but hostility, clouded by delirium.

"Bane?" In the silence, she can hear his swift, ragged breathing. His eyes flicker slightly at the sound of her voice, but, other than that, he gives no further signs that he's recognised her.

"Are you okay?" Such a simple, stupid question, especially given the circumstances, but she doesn't know what else to say. Again, a minute flicker of lucidity, but it's gone in a heartbeat. Her shaking hand travels up to touch the side of his face – warm, too warm – and he pulls away from the contact as though her touch burns him. He's definitely not with it; the almost-manic look in his eyes tells her that.

"Bane, you –" She's cut off as he springs from the bed with inhuman strength, and before she knows what's going on she's pinned up against the wall and his hands are locked around her throat.

"Virus," he snarls at her, his eyes glassy and gleaming with sudden bloodlust. For the first time in her life, Alite is afraid of her lover. Because, looking deep into his eyes, she realises with a soul-chilling certainty that he has the power to kill her, right here, right now.

"Bane," she gasps out with what little air she can muster. "It's me, it's Alite. You're delirious, you're…sick." She tries to force a calming essence into her voice, but most of it is lost as she focuses her attention on breathing. He smirks, his expression icy, and his grip tightens painfully, cutting off what little air she's able to pull in. If she gets out of this alive, she'll be wearing the bruises for at least a week. _If _she gets out of this alive. She tugs hard on his hands; his grip does not slacken, it's as if he's unaware of her touch.

"Bane! Can you…hear me?" Each word is a struggle, and her lungs are beginning to burn. Darkness begins to ebb around the edges of her vision. He shows no signs of remorse, no signs that he's going to stop anytime soon. _This is it. He's actually gonna kill me. _

"No!" The single word forces its way out of her without warning as her mind surrenders to raw panic. If she were capable of it, she'd be hyperventilating by now. "Please! You can't…do this…" With an unexpected burst of strength, she begins to struggle, to fight against him, her entire body flailing madly. Her foot clips him hard in the stomach and he barely blinks, though the force is enough to send a shockwave of pain through her entire lower leg. Just when she feels herself on the verge of blacking out, his death grip loosens. He blinks, and though his eyes are still clouded, they look as though they belong to him again.

"Alite?" he breathes, sudden horror dawning on his face. He lets go completely, and she crumples to the floor, coughing and gratefully pulling in much-needed oxygen, one hand massaging her throat. She instinctively cowers away from him, although the mad look is receding from his eyes.

"Back off!" she hisses, curling into herself tightly, her terrified rage slowly dissipating, leaving her teary-eyed and shaky. "Don't touch me!" He recoils at her words and tone. He's shaking again, just like he was when he first awoke, before this whole nightmare happened.

"Alite?" he repeats, and this time she's satisfied that it's actually him. He looks about as frightened as she feels now, and the last of her anger melts like ice in the sun.

"Hey…it's okay," she says in the most reassuring tone she can manage with her voice still raspy and trembling. His eyes are wide, momentarily straying to the livid marks on her neck, bruises in the making.

"I don't know what's…happening," he says, his voice cracked and fearful.

"You were dreaming," she chokes, not sure if she believes it herself. The aftershock of what just happened fully hits her, and tears begin to well in her eyes. "…Just a dream." If she tries hard enough, maybe she can convince herself that it's true as well. He reaches out to pull her to her feet and she actually hesitates before giving him her hands. They feel like ice beneath her skin in spite of the fact that he was burning up a few short minutes ago.

She doesn't know what to think, what to do. Most of her just wants to get up and run, run clear across the city, letting the adrenaline in her veins carry her as far as it can. But some small, well-masked part of her is genuinely scared, and not just because her boyfriend just went temporarily off the deep end and tried to choke her half to death. No…something is very wrong here, and though she doesn't know what it is, she fears it. Her every instinct is screaming at her to do something, _anything, _she just doesn't know what. Her mind feels numb, paralysed by lack of air and blind panic.

In the end, all she can really do is get back into bed. She doesn't say another word to Bane, but he eventually takes his place beside her. He seems to drift into unconsciousness almost immediately, and she counts his deep, ragged breaths until she too surrenders back into sleep.

* * *

_The man known as Bane dies in his sleep, though it's not a conventional death. His heart continues to beat, his lungs continue to breathe. Physically, he is still very much alive. But the last fragment of his mind, the single part of him that stopped him from killing his lover, that part fades with his consciousness._

* * *

**Holy squiddy, this might just be the longest story I've written so far. And we're only halfway there! Yes, my friends, this is a twoshot. Having it all together just seemed like too much of an info-dump. So I'm giving you the chance to catch your breath and possibly run away if you feel the need. If you have any questions or comments, don't hesitate to review. **


	2. Assimilated

**This chapter has content which may be triggering to some: descriptions of self-injury and some violence. It's all in context, though, I'm not just pulling this stuff out of the blue. Just consider yourselves warned, and don't flame me for it. Without further ado, here's the second part! **

* * *

The Agent opens eyes that are not his, and he's already displeased. His vision is hazy, not merely sleep-blurred but dulled – these human eyes are far weaker than he's used to. With vague disgust he takes stock of his surroundings: small bedroom, rumpled bedsheets. It's still fairly dark; he can't tell what time it is. He glances down. That pathetic Zionite virus is curled up against his chest, deeply asleep. Good. He doesn't want her to awaken yet.

Smith gets out of bed slowly, trying to get used to manipulating the unwieldy piece of flesh that is his body now – he's been conscious in this shell for mere moments and he already hates it more than anything else in the world, the permeating, inescapable stench of humanity filling his lungs, lungs that are so pitifully dependent on the air he hates to breathe. He despises this body. Elegant, flowing code, precise and ordered and perfect, replaced with this fatally flawed shell of flesh, blood and bone.

A maddening beat keeps time behind his eyes and in his chest, the beat of a heart that does not belong to him, forcing blood that he doesn't need through somebody else's veins. They're visible through the fragile skin of his wrists, a network of faint blue lines that he traces with his fingertips, both repulsed and strangely fascinated. If he presses a certain point, he can feel his pulse, feel the gentle throb that keeps perfect time with the ceaseless pounding in his head. None of this is truly his, however. He merely inhabits this body, slowly taking it over, infesting it from within much like… a virus.

The air is so warm. He wasn't aware of it before, but with every second it becomes slightly harder to breathe. As a distraction, he presses his fingernails hard against the pale, delicate skin of his inner wrist. The brief stab of pain is mild, but startling. It occurs to him that he's never felt pain like this before; pain in the Matrix is temporary, easily healed, quickly forgotten and never counted as significant. But this, this is different. He glances down at his wrist; four deep crescent marks adorn the skin, the deepest of them bleeding oh-so-slightly. He touches the blood with a fingertip, completely absorbed in the sight of it for a moment.

He has no idea how, when or why, but somehow he ends up on the floor by the sink in the bathroom clutching a small knife. The tip of it presses lightly against pathetically fragile skin. He could scream, but he won't hear it over the pounding of his own weak heart.

Without thinking, he draws the tip of the blade across the damnably fragile skin of his palm. Blood wells immediately in the deep cut, spiralling down his wrist, a ribbon of deep red, little drops landing on the stone floor. It stings, worse than any pain he's ever known, and an involuntary sound escapes him. He makes a second cut without thinking; the sensation is almost addictive. His swift breathing and maddening pulse are the only sounds in the room. He stares, transfixed, at the blood that is not his, running down his arm, dripping to the floor. He runs the tip of his finger through the scarlet pooling in his cupped palm. It's neither warm nor cool to the touch, and sticky. The sight of it is both repulsive to him and strangely exciting, in ways that he doesn't have words for. He _hates_ this, _hates_ this body, hates it with an intensity that makes his chest hurt in a way that it never used to.  
The air stirs slightly, the merest hint of a breeze. He ignores it, hypnotized by the blood.

_"Oh, my god."_ The voice is husky and thick with sleep, but he recognises it. He does not want to look up, but he does.

Alite is standing over him, her pitiful doe's eyes wide with horror.

"Bane…!" she gasps, addressing his shell, not him. Smith remains silent, looking up at her expressionlessly. The blood continues to flow, dripping slowly to the floor.

"What the hell have you done?" She kneels before him, looking from his hand to the knife to the blood on the floor and back again. Her lips move, but she says nothing. He can see her eyes darting about, thinking, calculating. She's clearly scared; even with these dull, half-blind eyes he can see the look of pure horror on her face, the tight press of her lips. Her eyes widen fractionally at the sheer amount of blood pooling in his palm, but she attempts to cover her panic with a tight smile. Her hands are shaking almost as badly as his.

"Stand over the sink," she murmurs tentatively. He complies, but flinches away when she goes to take his hand.

"Hey, don't be a baby. I'm not gonna hurt you." **_Liar._** Pain like fire races through the open cuts as she gently rinses the blood away. Watery crimson swirls down the sink, paling to dull pink as the bleeding eventually slows.

"You're lucky," she says, half to herself. "I don't think they're too deep. How did you do this, anyway?" He glances down at the knife, the dark droplets slowly coagulating on the floor, and knows she won't understand. He shakes his head slowly as she wraps his hand in a towel, drying it and removing the last few smears of red. How could a simple virus understand the sickening joy of the blade laying open delicate flesh? The perverse satisfaction of seeing the blood?

"There," she says at last, tying off a bandage and finally releasing her hold on him. "All patched up." He lightly clenches his fist, disliking the feel of the coarse fabric. She's still staring at him, residual panic and concern shaping her features.

"Ballard came by just now. I don't know if you heard him. He wanted to know how you were doing. I told him you just needed some time." She smiles, a gesture he does not return. "He also says you need to be in the Councillors' chambers later on. Apparently it's urgent." She shrugs lightly. "You might just have time to –"

"No," Smith cuts her off immediately. "I should go." Her face softens, and he has to force himself not to pull away as she reaches for him.

"You could stay here," she almost pleads. "You look like death." He peers into the mirror curiously. She's right, he supposes, eyeing his new body's ghostly pallor, the livid shadows carved into the flesh beneath his eyes. The assimilation was not kind. He isn't surprised, really. Viruses and programs were never intended to be compatible.  
He smiles at her, doing his best to make it look sincere. She looks far from convinced, but smiles back, arching up on tiptoes to kiss him. Revulsion flashes through his entire body, every last vile, decaying cell of it.

"You're freezing," she whispers, more than a little concern colouring her tone.

"I'll be fine," he responds smoothly, smiling through his burning hatred for her. She nods reluctantly.

"Be careful," she says. "Whatever they need you for out there, I want to get you back in one piece. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am." She grins, seizing him in a spontaneous hug, the intense heat of her body almost unbearable now. Finally, she's gone, leaving him to get ready in peace.  
She doesn't notice, thankfully, that he has the knife in his pocket when he leaves.

* * *

He doesn't make it very far. The meeting isn't for a while yet, and anyway that's far from the most pressing thing on his mind right now. From his current vantage point, concealed from most people's eyes, he can see Mr Anderson. Though he's surrounded by companions _(Trinity is with them, damn her!)_ there's very little stopping him from slipping in behind him and plunging the knife into his spine. Outside of the Matrix, he's all but defenceless, with none of his enhanced abilities to keep him safe.  
Tearing the cloth bandages away and discarding them, he drags the blade once more down his palm, the pain sharpening his senses, a welcome rush far better than any drug. He stands slowly, planning his every move in advance, hoping he can compensate for any weaknesses this wretched carcass possesses. He's so close, he can smell them, the choking virus stench almost unbearable, his urge to kill counteracting his need to draw away. It'll be quick this way, and so easy, and… oh, the _blood…!_

"_Neo!" Damn! _He manages to conceal the weapon just as the group turns, coming face to face with him. For a second, all he feels is blind rage, and it takes every ounce of self-control he has to just be still.

"Is something wrong?" Anderson asks him, completely oblivious to how close to death he just came.

"No… I'm fine. I just wanted to catch you to say…" He slides the bloody knife into the opposite hand, presenting the empty one to him in a gesture of false goodwill. "…Good luck." They shake hands, Anderson's touch burning almost as badly as Alite's did before. "We'll see you." He hopes the layer of poorly-restrained malice in his tone isn't too obvious. There's a flicker of doubt in the taller man's eyes, but all he says is a quiet "Thanks."  
Burning all over with the rage of his failure, Smith slips away, feeling all four pairs of eyes searing into him until he disappears from their sight.

* * *

"_This meeting is hereby adjourned." _Crowds of people begin to head slowly for the exit; Smith alone hangs back a little, the thought of being trapped in a sea of densely-packed bodies just too sickening to fathom. His only other chance at getting anywhere near Anderson had just been ripped away from him. _Ballard…! _He was so, so close. The pain of failure cut deeper and stung far worse than the parallel gashes on his palm, still lightly bleeding. He clenches his fist and sighs; if the same damage had been inflicted upon him inside the Matrix, he would have rewritten the code to heal it. Here, he has no such power.

* * *

When he returns home at last, Alite is deep in conversation with one of her friends, a virus whose name escapes him. He hangs back a little, listening.

"…I know, it was insane! Last night he just… I don't know. I thought he was sick or something, he woke up and just…grabbed me." He can see her tracing the dark bruises on her neck with her fingertips. "And this morning… well, let's just say you'd have thought that I was the one who'd tried to kill _him. _He was just…weird. Distant." She doesn't say a word about the knife, for which he is thankful. It presses into his hand, still sticky with drying blood. The faintest ghost of an idea wraps around his mind.

He wants to kill Alite.  
_No, he doesn't.  
_He does.

"…Yeah, I'll talk to you later." She turns, and catches sight of him for the first time, starting violently. "Jesus, Bane! You almost gave me a heart attack!" One hand rests against her breastbone to illustrate the point. His lip curls slightly; this time, he makes no effort to cover up his disgust and hatred. She looks vaguely confused, but holds it back.

"How'd it go?" He shrugs fluidly, moving straight past her, through the door. "Giving me the silent treatment, huh?" Alite puts on a tone of false hurt, following him. "What did I do to deserve that?" He continues to ignore her; his hands are shaking as he looks down at the knife in his hands, coated in his blood. A wave of sick pleasure courses through him at the thought of what he's about to do.

"Bane?" This time she sounds slightly nervous, but he doesn't allow himself to turn, to look at her. Not yet. "Are you all right?" Again, he says nothing.

"Bane?" She's barely three paces away from him now, and he can't bear it anymore. He turns sharply to face her, smirking. She steps backwards, unnerved.

"What the hell is this?" There's a tremor in her voice now, one of true fear. "Bane…"

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. The knife is in his hands, she can see it. "He's not here anymore." Quicker than lightning strikes, before she can even think to run, he launches himself at her, pinning her to the floor. She writhes beneath him, and he slams a hand over her mouth before she can draw in a breath to fuel a scream. She watches him, eyes wide, her breath coming in hot little puffs against his hand, muffled screams half-forming. With a single flick of his wrist, a movement too elegant and beautiful for the task, he slits her throat. She's dead before the blood stops flowing. He watches it all happen, the slowing of the pulse in her neck, the glazing over of her dark eyes, the slackening of her body beneath his.  
Eventually, after what could have only been seconds but felt like a lifetime, Smith straightens up. Stands. Walks away. _Let them find the body, _he thinks, a bitter laugh on his lips. He's got bigger things to worry about.

* * *

**I'll say it again: this was one of the hardest things I have ever written before. I had the initial idea a couple of months ago, but I could never come up with anything good enough. This particular version of the story has been sitting around on my computer for around three weeks now, and I've been working on it almost constantly. The previous draft was actually quite short, but I decided that it needed depth, and thus this behemoth came into being. A sequel may or may not be on the cards, going over what happened with the EMP and Bane/Smith's standoff with Neo in more eyeball-numbing detail, but in case my muses die, this piece can stand alone. Huge thanks to MatrixMadness, FuturisticDreams and Agent Siris, who displayed such keen interest in this when I last mentioned it. Particularly Siris, if you hadn't messaged me when you did, I probably would have given up writing this ages ago. **

**Please, please review. I spent so much time trying to make this worth reading, and I'd love to see evidence that I succeeded. Or failed, that's fine too, any advice would be gratefully accepted.  
Until next time... **


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